


Love Killer

by firagarif, NETWT1OZ



Category: The Collector Series (Movies)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Bondage, Canon-Typical Violence, Kidnapping, M/M, Manipulation, Non-Consensual Touching, Slow Burn, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture, might be some smut later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-06-11 08:07:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15311157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firagarif/pseuds/firagarif, https://archiveofourown.org/users/NETWT1OZ/pseuds/NETWT1OZ
Summary: The Collector wants his favorite piece: a man that has escaped him numerous times and lives to tell it.~A story that follows the events of The Collection, as if the last clip with Arkin confronting the Collector never took place.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Updates are about 2 weeks apart. You're more than welcome to suggest things as it attempts to progress in the story. And please, if you happen to catch a single mistake, even the slightest, I'll be more than happy to adjust properly.

Arkin had been staring wide-eyed down at the red trunk before him.

The Collector's mask is inside, empty.

He could only stare in horror at the black, leather mask.

That monster's still alive; he survived the fire.

There's an officer approaching him from the back, but he can't hear their footsteps closing in. His mind is blanking out and he can't even hear his own erratic breathing.

Arms close in from behind and latch tightly around his chest. There's an odd weight on his shoulders and hot breaths panting across his neck: something akin to an embrace.

Arkin bites his lip and gulps down some air. "Uh, y-yes?" He stands flabbergasted, turning his face down to a head of hair. It's faintly familiar, but he can't place from where.

Those hands grab a hold of his sides and squeeze. The thief grunts, prying at the crushing arms. He doesn't know who this guy is and he really doesn't want anyone touching him right now. "Stop, hey-!"

One leather-gloved hand moves up to the middle of his chest, loosening up on pressure, while the other is retracted. The man behind him shifts around in his pocket for something.

Those gloves. Shit. _Fuck._

Arkin falls limp in the hold, nearly stumbling forward. His breath hitches and he falters in his struggling. He just manages to let out the start of a scream when the other glove returns and a sharp needle bites into his neck.

Subconsciously he starts gasping for breath, vision blurring, feeling himself becoming heavy with an imaginary weight.

"Fu-ck!" Arkin manages out, stumbling forward as the hold on him is released. He whips around and has to catch himself lurching forward. If he passes out now, he's done for. He blinks, trying and failing to steady himself.

"Fuck you, you b-!" It feels like something _hard_ just smashed into his skull and cracked his head open.

Everything turns black and he goes unconscious.

~~

He wakes with his wrists tied behind his back and duct tape over his mouth. His legs are extended before him, bound by the ankles.

The duct tape is new because the Collector wasn't previously opposed to him screaming.

Arkin's shoulder slams into a wall and he looks around, still unsteady; the drug hasn't yet completely worn off. There are walls on both his sides and one behind him. What looks like a door is just beyond his feet.

The thief bangs against the wall on his side again, just to see if he'll get the Collector's attention. The man must know by now how impatient Arkin can get.

There's no response. He does it multiple times over what he assumes is three to four hours, but still nothing. Maybe the Collector's finally ditched him somewhere to die. He really hopes the bastard didn't do such an undignified thing.

He leans his head against the right wall, instinctually curling in on himself when he hears thudding underneath him. Sounds like a door being slammed shut. His shoulder meets the wall again a little louder, and he winces when he realizes he's bruising his upper arm.

Everything goes eerily silent. All he can hear is himself breathing through his nose and can feel cold sweat breaking out. Fear washes over him and he tries to breathe and assure himself he can escape.

Softer thuds and noises echo through the cracks and seams, footsteps getting closer then farther, then closer. Listening intently is a distraction, but he knows that once the footsteps arrive here, it'll all be over.

They're drawing very close now. On the same floor and, judging by a nearby door opening, the same room now.

The door in front of him is slammed open and blinding light pervades his vision. He clenches his eyes closed, hissing past the duct tape. _Fuck, that hurt!_

Arkin blinks down at the shoes before him, his eyes slowly wandering up. Before him stands the Collector, staring down through his mask.

It's the first time Arkin screams with the duct tape applied because common sense told him that the sound would be muted if he did with it on. But common sense was just thrown out the window and he's screaming and kicking, flailing about with no avail.

A foot steps down on his ankle's bonds, stopping his incessant squirming. Arkin takes the moment to control his breathing and train his eyes cautiously on the Collector.

The man holds up a finger to his lips, then steps off Arkin's ankles. Arkin pulls his knees up slightly, shifting them away from the other man. He watches as the Collector sits down on the ground across from him with his legs crossed.

For a moment they only stare at each other. Then the Collector turns to his side and grabs something. He brings it into Arkin's limited line of vision, revealing a plastic mug filled with water.

Arkin can't help but look at the water, but then his eyes shoot back up and he's back to staring down the man seated before him. There's a price for that, he knows. There always was.

A finger moves back over those lips under the mask and imitates another silencing motion. Arkin slowly nods out impatiently since he can't say 'okay'. He needs that water. He needs to live if he's going to escape.

The Collector coaxes him to lean his head forward. Arkin's head cranes forward when a gloved palm meets his cheek. It's not a slap, but a slow, deliberate massaging. It's weird and very off-putting, but strangely soft. His cheeks still ache from the blade being sliced through them, but he's not entirely focused on the dull pain.

The duct tape is luckily not stapled into his cheeks, which had occurred to him as a possibility. The tape is slowly pulled off and folded up neatly before being tucked away in the man's pocket. Strange way of disposal, he can't help but think.

He was hoping his arms would be untied so he could drink by himself and then sock the Collector right in the jaw. The hope, however, is shot down as the glove caresses his cheek again and the mug is pressed onto his lips.

The Collector rushes him in drinking, spilling half of the cold water onto Arkin's lap and his tank top. He is sure that was deliberate.

He gulps down as much of the water as he could before the mug retracts as well as the glove on his cheek. He feels eyes boring into him and meets the Collector's gaze again. All this staring is becoming unsettling.

He watches the Collector stand, then sitting back down on his knees. The man begins motioning at his knees and his lap. Arkin, at a complete loss, looks down at his lap, then back at his captor. "Wha- what?"

The Collector then grabs at his ankles and Arkin in return yelped. Time pauses as eyes stare down at him again. The finger over the mouth gesture returns, hushing Arkin for the third time.

Hands grip the cloth holding his ankles together and pull, making the cloth fall away.

Without a second thought, Arkin scoots just an inch forward - all the room he needs - and slams the heel of his foot into the Collector's gut. This made the man stumble back, but stand before Arkin could even get to his feet.

"Let me go, you bastard!" He is grabbed by the collar of his shirt and hoisted up. That finger meets lips again and he growls out. "I'll kill you, dammit! Untie me and-!"

A fist slams into the side of his face, making his head whip to the side. He gasps out and grits his teeth.

Another punch, making him spit out blood from his punctured cheek and busted lip.

"Fuck! Come on-!" Another punch and a loud reverberating crack, making the side of his face and jaw explode with pain. He tastes the metallic tang of blood thickly coating his mouth and the back of his throat.

He is pushed back, but his legs didn't respond in time and he crashes back down against the small, dark space. He is lying on his side with his head leaning against the far wall. Blood is dripping down his chin and coating his tongue.

He groans out but has no further comments. Can't move his jaw in order to form any words. It feels like it has been shattered. His eyes slowly move to look at the Collector, who is staring down at him.

He resigns to just closing his eyes and settling his breathing. Focus on something else while he rides out the pain. Trying to refrain from swallowing the copious amounts of blood in his mouth.

His ears strain as footsteps pad away. Arkin opens his eyes and looks to the space where the Collector had stood, but is no longer occupying. He doesn't have the urge to crawl forward. He doesn't want to move at all, his body drained of all energy.

He can hear lots of thudding now, and what he imagines is things being tossed around.

After a while, the footsteps return and the Collector is standing over him again. Arkin looks up and notices the syringe in his hand. He tenses and tries to turn himself over onto his back so he could kick and lash out again. The Collector grabs him by the shoulder, however, holding him in place.

"Shh," is the last thing he hears before the syringe meets his neck and he hisses in disdain. The world fades to black again and he falls completely slack.

~~

He awakes the next time with the Collector seated on his lap and a glove caressing his jaw.

Arkin grimaces, head banging into the wall behind himself, startled. He lets out a muffled groan. More duct tape.

The Collector's glove is stroking his jaw, and he can't help but wince when leather meets tender flesh. He closes his eyes again, hoping this to end.

A thumb presses into his cheek, the sudden stab of pain too jarring and his body bucks, forcing the Collector to be uprooted from his seat. Arkin clenches his eyes tighter. The bastard keeps prodding, adding insult to injury. That particular press stung too much.

Arkin whines when fingers lightly graze over his jaw again. They are then retracted.

Arkin nearly sighs out his nose before a hand meets the top of his head. The contact startles him and his eyes shoot open. It happens again, but now he recognizes it as a pat from the towering man. He watches with some amusement as the Collector pats him again on the head, then softly on the opposing cheek of the broken jaw, before he steps out of the small room. The Collector closes the door on him, concealing him in darkness again.

The thief curses himself last night, or whenever it had been, when he wasn't able to muster enough strength to attempt escaping. And now it seems he is bound by the wrists and ankles again, with more duct tape and a broken jaw.

He falls in and out of sleep, his ear settled on the wall to listen for door's openings. It is presumably much longer than four hours before the Collector returns.

The moment the door downstairs opens, Arkin is awake and on high-alert. The door closes and there is some shuffling around, doors opening and closing.

Then thudding and footsteps so incredibly close, as if just beyond the door. He closes his eyes, preparing for the flooding light.

Except the footsteps begin retreating and fading, finally just disappearing completely.

Arkin doesn't know how long he keeps his ear on the wall, listening for more footsteps. The Collector doesn't just stop walking.

He can't tell where he is now. Maybe tending to another person in the collection. Not like he wanted to see him anyway.

His stomach growls, but he ignores it. It's churning and he can feel pain in his lower abdomen. It stings, with his jaw numb and nothing to focus on. He really wants some food right about now, but he knows the Collector wants him to do something demeaning and he doesn't know what. He'll just have to figure it out when it comes down to it.

Arkin disregards the thought as he slams his shoulder into the wall again. It got the Collector's attention last time.

There are no footsteps or the notorious 'shh'.

Arkin winces as he slams the same shoulder into the wall a second time, then a third, and - because he has his doubts - he does it a fourth time. His shoulder stings now, too. Just another item on the long list of injuries.

There's now a soft padding of footsteps coming towards him, and he's starting to regret this as it's all happening.

The door is opened again and he's met with the Collector, but his clothes are baggy and not black, which is new. He lifts his chin and starts to make motions of chewing, but the Collector just stares down at him confused. The man's got this glazed over look in his eyes. To be honest, he looks like he just woke up.

Arkin really wants his hands untied so he can gesture to eating, but that's not the only thing he would do if his hands were untied. Taking off the duct tape certainly isn't an option for communication anymore.

He looks down at the man's knees, trying to recall how he was motioning at them. Maybe the Collector was motioning to his lap, or just his legs. It's all so confusing.

The Collector is still giving him a perplexed look, but then he looks down to where Arkin's eyes are trained and he makes a face of resignation. Like a light bulb just went off over his head. The man holds up his palm, the universal 'stop' gesture, then closes the door on Arkin.

The brunette listens intently, in the dark, as footsteps head downstairs and then lots of shuffling and some clinking. It's incoherent, but whatever was happening ended soon and he hears the Collector coming back upstairs.

The door is opened again and the Collector's holding a small bowl as well as another mug of presumably water. The man sits across from him and sets both items down.

Inside the bowl, Arkin can see fluffy, lightly seasoned, mashed potatoes. He can smell it too. That looks delicious in comparison to the mush that looked and smelled like dog food he used to feed him. Hands meet his cheeks and he lets his head be pulled forward. The duct tape is peeled off.

The hands then pull away from his face and reach for the mug of water. Arkin is swallowing a gulp of saliva before the mug even touches his lips and he's rewarded with the coppery taste of blood he hasn't been able to wash down. He shudders, but then the mug touches his bottom lip and he's ready to drink it down, the metal scent just a haze.

The cup is emptied at a much slower rate, as the Collector takes more time with renewed patience. A palm grazes his cheek again, as if proud for him drinking it all.

The empty mug is set down and the bowl is picked up. God, he really wants that.

Gloves grab the bounds around his ankles again and hesitate. The Collector hums in contemplation, eyeing Arkin. It's a warning. Food is within his reach, but if Arkin kicks out again he'll be getting none of it. He begrudgingly nods as the cloth around his legs fall away again.

The Collector stands, then motions Arkin to stand as well. Arkin does so, but is incredibly unsteady on his feet and almost topples over. He's caught by a hand on his shoulder. He looks at the Collector, the man is staring back.

Finally, the man before him sits back down on his knees. He then gestures to his lap and points a digit at his knee.

Arkin blinks, then slowly lowers himself down onto his knees on the ground.

A hand meets his hair and tugs him forward, making Arkin yelp in surprise and flail around. He can hear the bowl being set down and feels the other hand pressing into the other side of his head. He grunts and shakes his body up and down to loosen the hold.

"Shh," is all the Collector inputs before his head is jerked forward abruptly. Arkin braces himself for the floor, closing his eyes and clenching his jaw even if it burns.

To his surprise, his head meets a soft cushioning. He lets out a grunt and attempts to sit back upright, but the two hands now on the back of his head won't let up. Unfortunately, he realizes his ass is raised and his knees are stuck under his body. This position leaves him feeling very exposed.

Arkin shifts his head, blinking to adjust to the lighting. He can't really see the room they're in, as it's mostly empty. A hand is resting on the back of his head and won't let him turn to see the other side of the room.

His eyes turn up, and go wide. His struggling picks up again. The bastard is holding his head down on his lap. He doesn't like the implications.

The bowl is moved into his view and he sighs out in relief. He remains tense, but still. He watches the spoon as it's picked out of the bowl and scoops up some mashed potatoes. The spoon is held out for Arkin, just a little from his mouth. He lowers his jaw, hissing at the slight pinch, but the spoon enters his mouth and he swallows the spoonful before he gives his jaw or the position another thought. The spoon is reloaded and pressing against his lips before he opens them again.

It tastes really good. There's a strange itch in him that wonders if the Collector made this himself. He gives off a satisfied groan as he's treated to another spoonful. Fuck, it's the best thing he's had in days - or weeks, or months, since he doesn't really know how long he's been in captivity.

No more gurgling, groaning stomach as he swallows another spoonful. They have to pause so the Collector can wipe away a slight drippage of potato on Arkin's cheek and the man's pants. It's quickly dealt with and he's given another scoop. There's a light petting of the scruffy hair on the back of his head, but he doesn't let the strange movement bother him.

The last spoonful is the worst since this will be all he has for a long while. Not a single scrap left. It goes down the slowest, as he wishes he could've savored it.

The Collector puts the bowl down, then rummages around in his pocket for a syringe, head kept down with the other hand. There's a cap over it, but it's quickly discarded. He hovers it over Arkin's exposed neck and is just about to insert it when Arkin whimpers out a weak 'no'. Arkin's breathing hitches in his throat and he whines when the needle draws closer anyway.

"No, please. I'll behave." Arkin pleads out softly and exchanges a look with the Collector. The man grunts and draws back. The cap slides back over the syringe.

He's lifted with some precariousness and set to lean against the back wall of the enclosed space.

The duct tape is reapplied as well as the leg binds. There's a gentle caress of his jaw again and another pat on his head before the Collector closes the door and leaves him alone. Footsteps draw far off, but no doors open or close. They're just gone.

Arkin sighs out and lays his head against the right wall, grateful he didn't have to do what he was imagining. He dozes off for an undeterminable amount of time.

He's woken by the door downstairs opening then closing. Arkin gauges where the door leads to and if the man can still hear him as he bangs up against the side of the wall with his feet. His shoulder's needed a break anyway.

There's no response, even as he repeats the action every few minutes. He tries counting the seconds, but eventually misses a number at the hundreds and loses track.

Arkin groans, squirming and kicking, screaming through his gag in frustration. No one can hear him thrashing about in the enclosed darkness.

He tires himself out quick, likely due to less water and food intake. He's leaning against the wall, gasping for air, shuddering out with every breath. Everything hurts from being so cramped in this tight space (a trunk or closet, whatever this is) and, God, his jaw fucking _burns_.

In an attempt to calm his breathing, he ends up lulling himself back to sleep.

He's not more than two hours into sleeping when he hears the downstairs door open again and he's back to alertness. The normal thudding and shuffling as the Collector moves around under him is still very much audible. He's curious to how many people he has in his collection right now. How many has he collected after it all burned?

He wants to say he's never heard any of the other's thudding around after the man leaves through the door downstairs. While he's here, he can't say whether it's just the Collector doing things or another human being's doing.

Maybe the others are tied up and gagged even more than he is. Or he's got another location to tend to, which explains the long intervals of him being away. He could also be going to work. The first time they had met was when the Collector was working as an exterminator; maybe he still works there?

There's not much to go off of, but he needs to ensure he's got something on this guy for when he gets out.

The door before him opens and he sees the Collector is back to his usual garb. Before he's able to writhe and struggle, an arm's wound around his waist and hoists him up onto his feet. He's pulled flush against his captor.

This makes Arkin grunt and whip his head to knock into the Collector's. A hand presses into the small of his back and he falters. He feels the Collector begin backing up, tugging him to follow along. He is being led out of the closet.

It's difficult to follow as the Collector begins moving forward in the room, turning the two of them toward something behind Arkin.

He's pushed until the back of his legs meet something soft and he begins to lose balance. The arms around him do not allow him to fall, which he's not entirely thankful for. He feels the arms loosen and hands guiding him to sit. The Collector pulls back a little so he can take in the room.

The walls are painted brown with a small, bare bed in the middle of the room. There's an open door leading to the closet he had been tucked in. There are two more doors on opposite walls. Best guess is the bathroom out one and the rest of the place out the other.

If he listens close enough, Arkin can swear he can hear car engines revving up, dogs barking and birds chirping outside. He turns around to see a window with veiled curtains that let sunlight pool in.

His head is abruptly turned back, glove fiercely gripping his jaw. There's a smirk on the Collector's face as if he can read his thoughts. There will be an escape attempt out that window and he knows it.

Hands gingerly meet his cheeks and they meet eyes. There's something being shared between this look, but nothing in full clarion. His head stays craned up at the Collector for a long time, trying to interpret the expression disguised by the grim mask.

It makes sense to him. The gag isn't there because the Collector didn't want to hear his curses and screams. It's because the man didn't want people outside to hear him.

"Fuck you," arises out of his throat before he can really help himself. It's muffled by the tape and the thief doesn't even understand what he just said.

The Collector moves his hands down to the man's shoulders and leans his ear towards Arkin: an invitation for him to clarify.

"Fuck you. Fuck you! Fu-ck you, you sick bastard!" He's screaming, but there's no point. It's all incoherent and too warped to be understood. He can see the Collector's mouth twitch into a smile as his face is turned back towards him.

Leather hands move up to grope Arkin's cheeks and he winces at the pain.

The ear is turned to him again, and Arkin let's out a low growl.

"Fuck you, fucking psycho! Untie me and I'll rip your fucking ear off! You-!" He involuntarily shudders as the gloves gauge the movement of his mouth, tracing every word of his sleight of tongue. "You- you fucking faggot! Faggot! Un-fucking-tie me!"

Both thumbs press into his cheeks and Arkin is quick to clench his jaw shut on instinct. He grunts out as the Collector continues to press against his cheeks, then runs his thumbs up and down his teeth through his skin.

The masked man then turns to face Arkin again. He runs his thumbs purposefully over the butterfly bandages on his cheeks. The thief grunts out, because the wounds are still healing and it's not pleasant as they feel like they're reopening.

A line of blood drips down the cut on his left cheek. He whines out, whipping his head to the left to force the man's hand off. There's no real adrenaline now from what a fight would bring and the pain comes in full.

The Collector grabs him by the chin and forces his head forward. Arkin jerks his head to the side again or tries to. The glove grasping his chin is keeping him still.

His chin is dropped as the two gloves are back to holding the sides of his head.

Slowly, on both sides, the steri-strips are peeled off his cheeks. They're discarded without regard onto the ground.

Another pat on his cheek.

He's left very perturbed. The Collector doesn't treat him well at all, if ever. He can't recall a single instance. Maybe he has to others, but not him. There's the thought of him being special because there's no one left from his original collection, but again, he can't confirm this. The psycho could have another hideaway just like the hotel where he keeps more people.

He's distracted from his thoughts when his head is grabbed by the sides and pulled forward. Arkin grunts and struggles in the grip, but blinks in confusion when his forehead is pressed to the other man's. For a moment, all he can do is to sit there with their foreheads touching and gloves groping his face.

There's something strangely mesmerizing about the position. He hates it. He wants to slam his temple into the Collectors. But he can't. His body won't allow him to move. Vague familiarity comes with the hold; a sense of deja vu sweeping over him. He used to hold Lisa's head close when he would comfort her and speak in hushed tones about how they'd be able to pay back her debts. He hates it.

"Shh," is whispered and there's gentle massaging on the back of his neck. The fucker's playing with his feelings and he knows it.

Arkin grunts, pushing forward with his head. Trying to push away the Collector; trying to break the spell. He fails so incredibly that the Collector pushes him back by the shoulders.

But now he's being pushed all the way down. Down onto his back, tied hands trapped underneath him. His palms push up again the mattress for some leverage, but the Collector's grip is too strong on his shoulders and he can't push himself back up.

Arkin grunts and rebuilds his struggles, folding up his knees in defense. He stares as the Collector shifts forward and proceeds to push him onto the bed more, gloves placed on his waist as handles. His thighs are just barely on the bed when the Collector is crawling over him.

Arkin screams through the tape and bucks himself up. He tosses and turns, but he's halted by a leather palm on his chest. Back to being flat on his back and a new, settled weight on top of him.

The bastard is seated on his hips, with a smug look on his face that is very much visible through the mask. He's grabbed around the neck, and a brief squeeze shows the power being exercised here. The glove then moves down to a shoulder, then slides across his chest. The sensation arises goosebumps along Arkin's arms and legs and he's frantic for a way out, grunting aloud and attempting to struggle under the other man.

The other hand is quick, invisible to him as he is preoccupied with the hand on his chest, and slides right under his white tank top.

Arkin can't suppress the cry the cool leather elicits upon touching his skin. "What the fuck are you doing?" He shudders as the hand under his shirt makes it's way to his chest. He stares into the Collector's face and still finds he can't read those freakish eyes. He can feel his body trembling and can't still himself.

"What the fuck!" He whips his head to the side and curls up his knees to slam into the Collector's back. The man is jostled by it and his hands on Arkin's person still.

The glove not directly on his skin is moved towards his utility belt. A knife is unsheathed and pressed to Arkin's neck. "Shh," is the only command ever given, and it's no different now.

Arkin slowly moves his head down so it's flat on its side. He can't do anything unless he wants his throat slit. He resigns to falling limp and letting the Collector have his way. If he has to deal with the injuries later, then later he can. Preferably in a hospital.

There's a very strange thudding and both of them whip their heads up in confusion. The reflex leads to Arkin digging his chin into the still-drawn blade. It slices into him and he yelps, head snapping back in pain.

His vision blurs quickly and his ears are ringing. Arkin tugs at his wrists to try and use his hands to pressurize the wound. The bonds hold fast.

He groans out, shaking his head in haste. It's pounding, running a million thoughts at once.

Then he feels a cloth being pressed into his chin and secured tightly in place. The cloth pushes harshly into the underside of his chin again. Such tight pressure, but he can still feel the blood gushing.

There's more thudding downstairs and Arkin swears he hears a doorbell chime.

He feels the pressure loosen, and can feel the blood begins to literally stream out of him. The Collector turns his head to the door, looking very apprehensive. He then turns back to Arkin, and holds his fingers to his lips. The cloth pressing the cut slowly peels away as the Collector gazes at the wound. The cloth is then rolled up and placed to lean against it.

His captor then climbs off him, hushing him again. The Collector walks up to the door and exits.

Arkin whimpers, struggling with his bounds, but being cautious with the wound under his chin. It's still bleeding out and he doesn't want to find out how long it'll continue running before he suffers repercussions from blood loss. His feet aren't touching the ground and moving his shoulders shoots up pain in his chin. And he's really bleeding a lot.

He hears the door downstairs open and can hear voices beneath him, but it's impossible to distinguish which belongs to the Collector and which belongs to the stranger. Although they both are strangers to him.

His vision of the ceiling begins to swim, and his head sags forward. He feels tired. Arkin shakes his head. No, no, he can't sleep. But he can't do much else in this helpless state either. Pain erupts when he breathes.

Arkin turns his head slowly, careful to not flex the slice too much. His eyes catch the glint of the knife that's been left on the bed.

The thief bites back the stabbing pains and pushes against the mattress with his palms. It stings, it really fucking stings, but he holds back a cry as he's pushed up onto his feet. This is his chance!

The door downstairs is shut, and he knows he has to hurry. He waddles to the side and bends backward, blindly grabbing for the knife. He's got to be quick.

He sighs as his palm grazes the hilt, and he's scooping it up a second later. He then holds it down and begins slicing into the cloth binding in a back and forth motion.

His wrists are just free of the cloth when the Collector strides back in.

Arkin holds the blade with both hands, pointing it toward his captor. He's slightly hunched with his knees bent in a defensive stance.

The Collector takes a step forward. Arkin holds his arms closer, ready to attack if the other charges. He can't risk looking down to cut the binding around his ankles or use a hand to rip off the tape. The Collector steps forward again.

Arkin shuffles backward slightly. He can't really do anything, except to make a stab if the Collector lunges. But that's only if.

Arkin feels his foot step into some blood and chances a glance down. There's a puddle forming by his feet.

His hands shake uncontrollably and his knees wobble. His vision briefly flashes to black. The air in his throat hitches and he gasps. He tries to steady himself, but the effort proves fruitless.

The knife slips from shaking, quivering hands.

Arkin sees the world tilt and feels himself crash into something - someone clad in black - but never feels himself falling.

He feels a hand meet his jaw, and it's soft and gentle. There are wisps of hushing before he falls limp and is swallowed in black.

~~

Blinking awake, Arkin groans. He tugs experimentally at his hands. They are bound above his head and lying limply on a mattress. His ankles are still bound and lying before him. The duct tape never left. A small pillow is tucked comfortably under his head and there's some dressing itching at his chin and neck. He recognizes the loss of his shirt by the chill in the room, and how he's now only in briefs.

He groans again. He'll take the new position over the closet, but still not happy about being pulled taut like a bowstring.

There's a shuffle beside him and he turns his head just an inch to gaze at somewhere besides the ceiling.

The Collector is seated by his side, holding a large tarantula in his palm. Arkin can't help but eye the spider with extreme wariness.

The Collector likes to let those little things loose on some of his victims. They'd cry and scream and twist limply in their binds until a spider is intimidated by their movement and bites them. All the while, Arkin would watch despairingly, confined in a wooden trunk.

He gulps, and for the first time realizes just how raw his throat feels. It doesn't help that he feels like he can't breathe.

The man beside him turns to pet the tarantula in his palm, looking at it with some form of admiration. Then he turns to Arkin. A glove caresses his jaw briefly, fingers skimming against the skin on the underside of his chin. Arkin grunts, turning his head away. He ends up only exposing his throat more.

The Collector lets out this weird purr that Arkin recognizes as mockery. The man then withdraws and leaves the room.

He listens intently to the sounds outside now that he's got no focal point.

There's at least two different dogs barking, one really high-pitched and the other whining just a pitch lower, communicating profusely with each other. Cars don't seem to drive by a lot, but they always sound so close when they pass. There are kids yelling and playing games outside. He's so close to it all, and yet so far.

Arkin cranes his head to get a view of the window. The curtains are very light and he revels at the sunlight that fills the room.

If he squints, he's sure he can see trees and the back - or side, or some other part - of a house.

It's somewhat a relief. That just means once he escapes this room, he'll be as good as free.

Footsteps draw closer and he turns away from the window. His eyes are trained on the Collector before he's back in the room.

He watches the man step back toward the bed and sit beside him. The tarantula is no longer in his palm.

A glove meets his cheek and a leather thumb swipes just under his eye. Arkin groans out, pulling at both of his arms. The binds hold his wrists taut.

The hand caressing his cheek moves down slightly, down to palming his jaw. Arkin winces, closing his eyes. He pays little attention to the leather against his face, only feeling the texture of the gloves rubbing against his skin.

Surprisingly, this lasts for what feels like hours but was only about half an hour. He's moved up his arms and toyed with his wrists, then down to his hip. Back and forth the whole time on a loop. The man will sometimes slow the massaging or just rest his hand idly on the body part he's currently on, then back to a pace of gliding up and down his skin.

Arkin's completely lax when he's done. The routine's been repeated so many times that he doesn't really expect to be attacked at this point. Risky for his guard to be lowered, but his body has complied and he can't really help it. Not to say he enjoyed being felt up and down like that.

There's a pat to his cheek before he feels the weight on the mattress shift and blinks his eyes open to see the Collector leaving.

He stares at the closed door for a few moments without actually realizing it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some torture happening in this chapter, just a heads up!

The house is still now. Dust has settled and a false serenity permeates the room.

The Collector has become quiet.

Arkin can see shafts of moonlight leaking through the bedroom window.

He is still bound to the bed, and his attempts to squirm and loosen his bindings have remained fruitless. The cloth on his ankles and wrists hold fast when he tugs, leaving him grunting when the taut cloth bites into the skin.

Everything feels so numb; unreal. Is he even here and not just dreaming away in some hospital? In a jail cell, or an asylum?

Arkin clenches his jaw and a tight, squeezing pain erupts from his cheek. Fuck, nope, this is real. He's really in the Collector's custody again.

He wants to slam his forehead into a wall for his show of idiocy.

Of course the Collector would come after him again. He was standing around the crime scene probably waiting, watching for the moment Arkin was all alone so he could 'collect' him again - a game of cat and mouse. This game was only going to end with one of them dead.

Arkin screams out in frustration. He pulls up with his elbows, trying to maneuver the cloth off his wrists. He tugs, and he tugs, and still tugs when it's biting into his own skin and he's not making any progress.

There's no end to his anger for himself and for his captor; it only grows the more he struggles. By the time he's run out of things to do, he's kicking and shouting and pounding his fists into the mattress. He's spewing curses left and right, jerking his head and bucking his waist.

He's going to make a lot of noise. So much noise, someone has to hear besides the Collector.

Arkin quiets momentarily when he hears thudding and recognizes footsteps drawing near. This fuels more commotion out of him.

Kicking into the bed so hard, it produces a loud metal groan; screaming so loud, he can feel his face burning and ears pop; tugging on the cloth and pounding his fists into the bed to sound off soft thuds.

The bedroom door is opened and Arkin screws his eyes shut, never hesitating once in his actions. Wake up the whole damn neighborhood if he can.

There's hushing, hands traveling onto his stomach and waist, moving up and down his abdomen deliberately slow. Trying to soothe him; quiet him; put him to sleep.

"Shh," is the continued hush he gets in reply.

"No! Fuck you! Fuck you faggot! Fucking pussy-ass! Fucking-! Go to hell, you motherfucker!" Arkin is screaming, wincing when he feels his already broken jaw _snap_ and he feels the side of his face go numb. He keeps his eyes screwed shut, so tight that no light peeks through.

Arkin then gulps and lets himself go limp as he hears the unsheathing of presumably a knife.

The Collector hums out intrigued, slowly placing the tip of the blade to Arkin's sternum.

Eyes fly open as the thief grunts out. He feels the blade follow along a large slice of a scar across his stomach - where the Collector had held the cockroaches to his belly and egged them into his flesh with fire under their residency of a glass jar. His breathing hitches in his throat and his eyelids flutter to stay open.

Many tiny, phantom pinchers frantically nip into his skin and he gasps out a sudden scream. Arkin lets his back arch, jerking upwards as he tries - and fails - to calm his hectic breathing.

"Shh. Hush," The Collector finally says. It shocks Arkin more than it calms him. He's never heard the man's voice before, or he's sure he hadn't anyway. It doesn't help that he now can identify the ominous person behind the Collector's mask even a little more and that guarantees he's not ever going to be freed. But that wasn't really going to happen anyway.

A hand, notably not obscured by gloves, presses into his underbelly and his heart flutters. His breathing has gone still and his head rolls to the side. A relaxed sigh falls from his lips. It's very much coherent even through his gag. He's gone limp and completely vulnerable.

Arkin hasn't had the feel of skin on his person in a long time. The contact, not caring by who, is entrancing and makes him fall slack.

The Collector is very much amused now, as he runs his palm up the man's chest. The blade is withdrawn but still held at the ready. His hand wanders up to the nape of his neck, continuing up slower now.

Arkin grunts and is completely helpless to his body's reactions when he leans into the palm on his cheek. The palm massages just beside his eye, dragging across the skin.

Arkin lets out a quiet moan escape him as he turns himself towards the touch. It's Lisa running her hand all over him, not some kidnapping, serial-murdering psychopath. Such warm, delicate touches, so inviting and kind - not belonging to the Collector.

He peeks open his eyes when the hand is pulled away, craving its touch, and is startled back into reality. Glossy, seemingly translucent eyes are staring just inches from his own face, peering at him with a meticulous gaze.

Arkin turns his head away, closing his eyes again. The touches were all from the Collector, as much as he wanted to previously deny it. He spits out curses through his gag, but the Collector isn't particularly affected.

After a while, he feels the weight on the mattress shift and steals a glimpse to see the room now empty. He lets out a relieved sigh.

But he didn't manage to get any food out of the encounter. Arkin would be happy to give up food for just a while if it meant no more of the Collector's creepy antics being exercised.

He's left staring up at the ceiling of the room for a long while. Hunger creeps up on him, but it's nothing he can't hold back.

The thought of dying stings him the most, and he's stuck with the mindset most of the time. He can't stand it; he can't stomach the thought of dying here. He needs to get back to Cindy and Lisa no matter what.

Arkin glances at the window again when he hears birds picking up in their chirping. Sunlight is dimly shining through, making him infer it's morning. He closes his eyes again, lying his head back.

Just then, he hears footsteps and jolts back awake. Now, however, there's the sound of wheels. Something being pushed down the hallway, he assumes.

And that's never going to be a good sign for him.

Arkin renews his struggling from last night, flailing and yelling. His throat's sore from thirst and abuse, but he doesn't really care. He's got to escape.

The Collector opens the door, then turns his back to Arkin. A small cart is tugged inside the room, carrying a variety of objects: duct tape, needles, bags of mysterious fluids, cuffs and chains, and a small, red, bait box are just a few things he can identify.

"What?" He gasps out in a haze as the large, bulky cuffs are immediately clasped around each of his ankles, the cloth already there being removed. His legs are now free, but not for long. Soon after, a chain connects to one of the cuffs and locks onto a metal ring on the side of the bed he can't see. The Collector goes to his other leg and attempts to chain up the other as well. Arkin refuses, pulling his leg away.

The masked man holds up a fist and swiftly delivers a punch to Arkin's thigh. The ex-thief grunts, clenching his teeth. The falter gives the Collector the opportunity he needs to cuff his other leg to the bed. A small chain then connects the cuffs, immobilizing both his legs.

More cuffs are brought out and two more quickly clasp onto his thighs. Arkin grunts when a hand teases the inner skin of his thigh. He bucks his knees and jerks to the side opposite the Collector, trying to get away.

The Collector gives him a half-hearted look through that mask of his before chains are held up into view. Arkin watches helplessly as the cuffs on his upper legs are then chained to the same loop his ankles connect to. Thighs then connected with a chain too.

Another cuff, much larger than previously, is wrapped around his mid-section. That is then chained to two rings on opposite sides of the mattress. Damn is this guy making sure he's completely still.

The cool leather of another cuff touches his neck and Arkin just yells. This psychopath is pinning him completely down, and the thought is slamming around in his mind so much he can't wrap his head around it.

"Stop. Stop! Fucking stop!" He snarls out, attempting to wiggle around his legs. Completely immovable. His elbows suspend a little off the bed and attempt to reach out to the Collector, but the guy's just out of reach and he doesn't have that half an inch of give he needs to slam the joint into his face.

The cuff clasps around his neck and its weight is suffocating. He gags and gasps out for breaths. It's not choking him, but the feeling and pressure of it on him is.

The Collector slides one of his fingers under the cuff around his neck, testing the tightness, giving the plastic clasp a tug upwards. Arkin lets out a dry gag, groaning as his neck is pulled forward just an inch. Digits then slide from under the collar and are pushed onto the captor's lips.

"Shh," The Collector hushes listlessly like it serves to help calm Arkin.

Arkin manages to compose himself just in time to hear the chains clicking into rings, holding his neck down firmly from both sides.

Next, two snug cuffs are placed on his forearms. They bite into his skin, but he doesn't retort. This is the moment the Collector will release his arms and he'll have his hands free.

Then two cuffs are placed just under the binds on his wrists. Arkin watches as gloves undo the bindings slowly, cautious with every move to not give his plan up.

The cloth around his wrists fall away and they're free now. Arkin snatches at an arm, and successfully holds the guy's lower arm in his palm now. The thief begins to apply pressure as much as he can, hoping for a break. The Collector growls out, then a knife is drawn. Arkin tenses then squeezes just that much harder. Now he really needs that break.

There's a snarl, followed by a sudden knife jabbed right into his side. Arkin screams out and slams against the bindings with all his strength. Chains rattle but his bound limbs nor body budges.

The blade is turned, stretching out the stab wound. Arkin grunts and groans, holding his eyes firmly shut, trying to sink himself into the mattress. Shivers and trembles rock through his body.

The blade is then sheathed again and a chain connects one of his wrists to the ring on the side of the bed. The Collector has the time, while Arkin revels in pain, to walk around and chain up the other wrist too. Forearms are then chained to the same loop as his wrists. His arms are to his side, pulled to opposite sides of the mattress.

He doesn't know how long he's had his eyes closed and remained a quivering mess, but eventually, a hand lacking any leather pushes down on the skin around the puncture wound. Arkin lets out a strangled grunt, peering an eye open to his captor. The Collector drags his palm around the stab, careful to not pry into flesh. The touch is soft, but he doesn't find as much comfort from it as he did earlier.

The Collector then stands and exits the room, leaving the cart of objects in plain view. There are no more chains or cuffs but the duct tape, needles, bags of liquid, and red bait box remain. Arkin can't help but shudder at the thought of what all that's going to be needed for.

The man shortly returns with a roll of gauze and a small patch. The patch is placed over the wound and gauze firmly wrapped around it. The remaining gauze is then deposited onto the cart's tray and the small, red box is pulled open.

The Collector sits down beside Arkin's face, turning so his legs are now crossed on the mattress. "Shh," the Collector instructs, resting his now gloved hand onto Arkin's cheek.

The duct tape is slowly peeled off and Arkin gasps for breath now that his mouth is free. There's something so freeing now that he can move his lips and mouth properly without obstruction.

"What the hell, man? What the fuck are you doing all this for?" Arkin gasps out, his eyes sliding over the Collector's face, or what the mask will reveal of it. The Collector cranes his head down towards Arkin, and it makes the thief falter when eyes are staring at his parted lips. There's amusement, or something like joy, that the Collector doesn't try to hide when watching his lips.

Arkin smirks on the inside, and spits out a glob of saliva, watching it sail into the man's eye. Now he's really smirking as the Collector growls and wipes out the spit.

The Collector is snarling, which he reserves for when he's upset. Not the loud, vicious growling for being pissed off, rare as that is. It's the low, quiet snarl reserved for his favorite pieces of his collection when they move when not told, ruining the make-up he's been otherwise very tedious and cautious about not messing up.

The man quickly stands and steps up to the box on the tray, pushing stuff around inside it. Finally, the man reveals a thick needle and some thick string.

The Collector hasn't even stepped back towards Arkin before the man has begun yelling in rebuttal. "Fuck no! No! Don't you dare! Don't you fucking touch me!"

A glove is clasped over his mouth, holding his lips in place. Curses and yells are partially obscured by the glove, but not by much.

The glove moves to hold one side of his mouth closed, while the other hand presses the tip of the needle into Arkin's lower lip.

"Fuck! Stop! Stop it! Don't!" Arkin screams out, muffled into incoherency.

The needle pierces the flesh of his lower lip, then is shifted and slides around through the small puncture.

"Don't! Please don't!" Arkin pleads, screaming behind that firm glove.

The Collector uses his fingers to guide the needle from under his lip and through, piercing his upper lip.

"Stop it, dammit! Don't fucking-! Fuck! Fucking stop!" Arkin releases a curdling scream when the needle pierces into his flesh a third time. It's not even a third of the way done.

His screams and cries and pleads don't relent. The Collector takes a break once he's about 3/4ths of the way done. His cries sound like muffled whimpers now, and Arkin's left breathless from all the struggling and yelling.

The needle is picked up again, intent on finishing suturing the rest of his mouth.

"Please, please don't," Arkin whines out, has to breathe out between his words. He's tired himself out and his lungs burn from exertion.

The Collector gives him a pat on the cheek as he finishes the last stitch, tying a large knot at the end.

Arkin tries to flex his lips, but the stitches pull at his taut skin and he ends up crying out in defeat.

His eyes catch the Collector who has tucked away the needle and thread and is now picking up the duct tape. A stapler is then pulled from inside the red box, making Arkin jerk his head from side to side.

"Oh, fuck no! Fuck you!" He winces at the sting at the back of his throat and pain of tugging at his lips.

The Collector rips off a strip of duct tape, then firmly places it over Arkin's stitched lips. The stapler is then pressed onto the edge of the duct tape, into his cheek, and Arkin whips his head away. The cuff on his neck doesn't let him get far.

"Don't! Don't!" Arkin repeats, clenching his eyes shut. A glove glides down his cheek, pressing lightly into his skin. The hand, then stapler, is retracted and he hears another strip of duct tape being ripped off the roll. The glove returns to tug his chin forward. Before he has time to look around, a strip of tape is then pressed over his eyes.

Arkin falls still, breathing becoming ragged. This is definitely not going to be good at all.

"What?" Is all he can mutter.

A staple is embedded into his forehead, on the edge of the tape obstructing his eyes. He winces out as another follows on the other side.

"Why are you doing this?!" Arkin asks but knows he won't get a clear answer.

Hands leave him completely and he's left with his ears strained to hear the clacking of something to his side. The Collector is fiddling around with something on that cart, but he can't see it now.

"What are you doing?" Arkin asks idly. Does he really want to know what the Collector has planned? He's been completely bound up with no hope of getting out.

A hand suddenly clasps around his lower arm and the inside crease of his elbow is rotated to face upwards.

"What the-?" Before the question leaves him, a needle has pierced into the fold of skin. Arkin grunts, trying desperately to move the rest of his body. The needle is pushed into his skin.

What's he inserting into him? Medicine or something? A sedative normally would've been through his neck.

The only thing Arkin can possibly think of for the needle in his arm is an absolutely terrifying thought.

He's turning Arkin into a dog.

Arkin screams. And his throat stings and burns, but he doesn't care.

The Collector's turning him into one those zombies. He's had enough of Arkin acting up.

Arkin yells again, and jerks his head, and shakes his arms around, and kicks around but only manages to jangle the chains about. All while relenting over and over again a mantra of "No! No! No!" His back can only arch up a few centimeters and his head will only flail so much, but he's got to convey how much he absolutely doesn't want to be a dog. He must have some value of being himself over a dog.

"Shh," he can hear ringing in his ears, but it doesn't make him stop. The Collector's turning him into a mindless, retarded, obedient, hollow dog.

"No! No, no, no! Please no! NO!" Arkin hasn't stopped, thoughts of being drugged and his brain being utterly fried to the point of such animalistic behavior. He can't stomach it.

A glove presses into his cheek, thumbing into the soft flesh. "Shh. Shh."

His pleas turn into whimpers, then just wisps of breath. He's spent all his words, screaming and shouting.

Arkin feels duct tape being wound around the needle still inserted in his arm. Ensuring he won't manage to pull it out.

He loses all contact with the Collector again, and can't figure out where the man is now. He's exceptionally quiet, lacking any production of sound. His own crying hasn't relented.

He jolts when a glove meets his cheek and he can feel hot breaths on the opposite side of his face. Lips graze against his ear. His face is turned partially to the side.

"Arkin." It's the second time the Collector has ever spoken, even if it's nothing but a whisper. And it's his name, which he doesn't really recall ever telling the man. The Collector must've learned it when he visited him in the hospital or by watching the news.

"Arkin," he repeats again. The thief gulps and feels his body shudder. He realizes he must've been holding in his breath. "I'm going out for a long time."

There's no speech impediment present in his voice. Why not talk this whole time? Then again, Arkin didn't willingly want to hear his voice.

And what did he mean 'going out for a long time'? Why should Arkin even care?

"The needle is an IV. Do not pull it out. It'll feed you while I'm away." The Collector is whispering into his ear slowly, breathing warm, hot breaths into his sensitive skin.

Arkin just gives a curt nod in response. Good, not going to be a mindless dog.

"The next one will be a sedative. If you wake before I return, keep still and be good." The words aren't fully interpreted before the Collector pulls back and fiddles around with something. The sedative.

Arkin tenses. He really doesn't want to go unconscious again.

It's not really up for debate as he feels a prick at the base of his neck and feels the syringe emptied into his system.

All he can do is to grunt and meekly struggle before the sedatives taken hold of him and he's slipping.

There's what he presumes is a soft press of lips to his cheek before the whole world lurches from under him and he passes out.

~~

His limbs and head feel like lead when he stirs.

The Collector must not be there, because the cuffs are still very much clasping him still and it's eerily quiet.

There's a feeling of wetness encasing his waist and legs and it smells like something acidic. He has a moment of panic when he believes it may actually be acid, but there's no burning feeling accompanied with it and so the thought is shot down.

There's also something firmly clasped under his jaw that seems to be tied around his head. Arkin attempts moving his chin up and down, but the stitching tugs at his flesh and he halts the effort. The metal contraption holds his head firmly in place.

Arkin is left in darkness, listening for things outside to distract himself with. All he can hear is an occasional car pass, which manages to scare him rather than distract him.

It's been a long time, or maybe it hasn't been and Arkin just thinks it's longer since he woke up. There are no signs of the Collector or anyone else in the house with him. He most certainly cannot escape this.

He may never see Lisa again. Cindy could forget about him.

Arkin attempts moving his wrists around or kicking his legs. He doesn't feel his limbs move at all. No escaping, it seems.

Arkin's exhausted, and is reminded of this when there's a stabbing pain in his forehead and feeling fades from him. He groans out, attempting to dislodge himself somehow from his restraints. No success.

He breathes out, exhaustion claiming him. Lack of food and water is taking its toll. And God does he desperately want to move.

He lays there, steadying his breathing, brewing on his situation.

~~

Arkin knows it's been days. He's heard the sounds outside of birds and cars and people as they rotate through the day and night. Kids play outside and birds chirp lively all throughout the day, while only cars zoom by and crickets chirp at night. He's counted four nights total upon waking at day. He sleeps once he's sure it's night, usually waking to the birds chirping.

He's lying idly, hasn't been able to figure out an escape route yet. There's nothing to do except think over his life.

The stress has him completely tired and spent. Who knows how much longer he'll be here or if the IV has enough for him to continue? He's definitely over-malnourished, lacking any real food or water for days.

He's screamed already, all he can. After the second night, he yelled and cursed until he was left panting. No results.

The Collector has never left him alone for so long, usually only a day of absence. He's never been alone for this long with no vision or mobility either. It hurts. He may never see anyone ever again. He'll die of dehydration or starvation before the cops can find him. He'll die here, alone, all bound up.

He'd clench his fist but his fingers won't even comply to his will now.

Then, there's a click from downstairs. And the door downstairs is heard opening and closing. Arkin perks up, can feel tears welling up.

Soft thuds resonate throughout the house, and he thinks he can recognize rushing footsteps. Running. The cops? SWAT?

Arkin gasps out a 'hey!', trying to proclaim his existence. His throat cringes and he swallows it with a sting. He ends up coughing, which irritates the stitching in his lips.

The footsteps are thankfully already drawing closer and at a very quick pace. It's picked up to a pounding run.

The bedroom door opens and the footsteps completely halt.

"Please, help," Arkin meekly mutters out, inclining his head back just a bit. It's a little more comfortable.

Footsteps approach painstakingly slowly now. They stop at his side.

Hands, not gloved, grab at the side of the contraption on his face. The metal mechanism is easily torn off, discarded away. Arkin winces at hearing the metal clang against the floor.

Fingers reach the duct tape and he feels the weight of presumably a knee lean onto the bed by his arm. The tape is pulled off, revealing his clammy lips to the fresh air.

He hears the unsheathing of a blade but doesn't think much of it. He's happy things are just being taken off his person.

The knife's edge is pressed between his lips edges, then pulled across the span of the stitches. The strings snap at the edge of the blade, then reach the end, allowing Arkin to open his lips again.

The man gasps out, sucking in air by the mouthful. He can't help the faint smile that spreads on his lips. He can move his mouth again.

"Than-!"

There's suddenly another set of wet, warm lips on his. He can feel the contrast against his own chapped, dry ones. Arkin tenses, quick to clench his jaw shut tight. Not happy with this, lips drawing back, he can hear the other man let out a low growl: a warning.

More weight shifts up on the bed, chains being pushed around to bend Arkin unwillingly. The weight of the man is now seated to his side on the mattress. He knows the man is leaning over him with his hands on either side of his head.

A palm, not gloved, meets his cheek. A thumb prods into his jaw, feeling around.

Arkin's so focused on the hand on his face, he doesn't notice the man closing in until lips meet his again. He grunts out, trying to lean his head back to pull away. The man's lips follow. He feels teeth lightly scrapping at the cut strings still in his lips. He grunts when teeth sink into his lower lip.

"Stop, l-let me go! Help me!" Arkin struggles out between clenched teeth and a lip being teased.

The hand on his cheek gives him a gentle pat before lips draw back again. He can't help but sigh in relief. Not that he knows what's coming next.

The hand slowly slides up his face, giving him a soft caress. Digits fiddle with the staple embedded into his head, then toy with the tape obscuring his eyes. The hand is then retracted from Arkin.

Two hands then return all the way down at his ankles. The cuffs are unlocked. Hands snake up his skin, landing onto the cuffs on his thighs. Those are then unlocked too.

It's a slow process of the man removing the cuffs from Arkin. Hands touching his skin as they work on unlocking the bindings. Teasing him with gentle touches.

His wrists are the last to be unlocked. Arkin can now move his limbs. Except, he's too weak. His arms will shift minimally and legs will only comply by rotating. It's not much and certainly not enough to be a threat.

And he's still blindfolded with duct tape.

"Hey, what's- what're you doing?" Arkin inquires as arms wrap around his waist and tugs him up.

He winces when a weight settles on top of him. The man is lying on him. Arkin struggles meekly by attempting to push away. It comes out as the lightest nudge.

"Wait. Wa-it." Arkin grunts out as he's being pulled forward now. Hands clench his shoulder blades and the man is holding him to his chest. Arkin's too weak to move his head out of the guy's neck. He doesn't seem to care.

"Can you- can you take off this duct tape? I- I don't care if you pull out the staples." Arkin asks, shifting his head a little against the man's neck, trying to find a comfortable position. His neck aches from being still all that time, as well as everywhere else.

He's pulled to the side of the bed, legs dangling off the edge.

The man's weight pushes against him, but the hands on his back don't allow him to fall back. The side of the man's face is leaning against his own, moving up and down in a nudging motion.

"Huh?" Arkin blinks out, attempting to push away from the man. He's held too close and doesn't manage to gain any distance between them.

A warm breath spreads down the top of his ear, making it twitch. Arkin can feel heat splay across his ear with every breath the other man takes.

"Shh."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this fic has zero relevance to anything except the Collector is a killer. It was literally just a song I listened to while writing out the outline of this story. Would love to hear suggestions on some other names.

Arkin gasps out, attempting to shove away from the man he's leaning against. He's too weak to do anything except wiggle around.

"Shh," is repeated as a hand slides down his back. Arkin lets out a sudden yelp, grunting to struggle with his captor.

He tries to say something but his voice cracks and he ends up coughing into the Collector's chest.

A hand meets under his legs and hoists him up, the other hand still fixed on his back. Arkin's lifted and fixated into some bridal position. His head's flopped onto his captor's shoulder with arms under his thighs and around his back. He's weakly clutching the back of the Collector's shirt, not wanting to fall backward.

His legs and arms are way too weak and heavy to resist as he's carried off somewhere. He grunts out when they stop and the Collector fiddles with a doorknob, or something that rattles similarly to a doorknob anyway.

"What're you doing?" He asks, voice cracking slightly. His captor continues forward without regard to his question.

Before Arkin can ask again, he's being lowered. He's curious onto what, when abruptly his toes dip into a cool liquid. He jumps up and tries to retract his legs. Arkin, without really thinking about it, uses his arms around the Collector for leverage to pull himself up and away from the tub of mysterious liquid.

He's breathing hectically, holding onto the Collector blindly, head tucked into the sweater's shoulder. Arms have been slid back under his legs and back, securing him just above the tub in the bridal position again.

"What- what is that?" Arkin breathes out, gasping between his words. His body is strained already, he can't handle whatever the Collector has planned.

The Collector hushes him, then slowly, with arms still wrapped around him, lowers Arkin into the tub. Arkin panics again briefly, but there's not much he can do to resist except pull himself closer to his captor, which he isn't really thinking much about before doing so.

The Collector growls out a light warning but does nothing to remove Arkin from clinging against him, lower half submerged in the tub.

One of Arkin's arms is pushed away, but the other is kept around his captor.

"Shh," is whispered to Arkin again as the Collector begins to press into the skin submerged in water. The gauze wrapped around his torso is removed, revealing a scar of a gash.

The Collector eyes it before lathering his hands up in soap and scrubbing at some of Arkin's dirt-covered skin. His hands eventually move up and begin scrubbing soap into Arkin's hair and abdomen. His skin is rubbed raw, red from the removal of all the dried blood around his neck and chest.

The Collector then slowly pulls Arkin off himself and proceeds to push the man into the water. Arkin flails, gasping out.

"Huh? Wa-wait. Wait, please." The thief pleads out breathlessly, gasping on a sob. His hands plant themselves on the sides of the tub. He's reluctant to be underwater and the Collector's done this to him and drowned others before.

Firm hands on his shoulders continue pressing downward and he can feel his body being submerged further and further in. Half his head is under and his mouth and nose are just barely managing to not intake water.

"Please." Arkin tries again. He's helpless to whatever the Collector does now. Too weak to fight him off.

"Shh," is all he gets before he's being pushed down further and he holds his breath. Upon submerging completely, a hand moves off his shoulder and begins scrubbing out the suds from his hair. The hand moves back to his shoulder and he's pulled back up.

Arkin gasps out, coughing dryly. He's pulled swiftly back towards the Collector, caught in an embrace. He's sogging wet and soaking through the man's clothing, but it doesn't seem to bother him.

Arkin is eventually lifted out of the water, hoisted up into arms again. He's got an arm slung around the Collector's shoulders, the other dangling at his side. He is brought further into the room, then seated on cool porcelain.

There's no question to what he's seated on. That much is obvious. It's strange to do this while seated, he wants to admit.

He fumbles out of his briefs then uses the cloth to try and obstruct himself from the Collector. He has no idea where the guy is and whether or not he's watching him relieving himself. Better to just not dwell on it.

Arkin's quickly finished, attempting to pull his boxers back on when he's done. A hand then meets his wrist and squeezes. Another hand then tugs his briefs down his legs, opposite of the direction to cover himself.

"He-hey, what the hell?" Arkin tests, struggling in the hold on his wrist.

The Collector scoops him back up and Arkin now struggles with renewed energy. He's very much nude and the psycho's probably going to cut off his balls. The Collector hums to his efforts, readjusting a hand under Arkin's ass and the other under his legs, head falling back onto his shoulder.

"Gi-give me back my boxers." Arkin winces at the exertion required to say that. The Collector regards him with a nudge of his head before they're heading somewhere else now.

He feels like a ragdoll being towed around like this.

He's placed down on another bed. It's much lower to the ground than the one he was tied down to and has a soft blanket laid on it.

Arkin feels his arms being pushed behind him and struggles in the hold as he gets the implications. He can feel the rope tighten over his wrists, bonding them together, before he can even think to struggle.

The Collector then stands, stepping away from Arkin. There's shuffling, and the ex-thief briefly tests his surroundings.

He tries to stand, but his knees ache and legs feel strained with his weight that he eventually just remains seated. Nothing he can do except wait for the Collector to make a move.

The man finally returns, and Arkin may not have noticed the faint footsteps, but he definitely knows once a collar is being fit around his neck.

Arkin hisses, reeling back and out of those hands around his neck. He pulls his knees up, holding the Collector back with just his leg.

"What the fuck are you doing?" He manages to say breathlessly.

The Collector lodges his elbow between Arkin's legs, making the man grunt out when his legs are then pulled apart by hands.

"Fucking- hey! Stop!" Arkin rasps out as two hands hold his legs apart. He can feel a body shift in between his thighs. The thief grunts, twisting and turning to try and escape his captor's hold. The hands hold firm.

Then a palm meets the side of his face and he pauses. It's gentle and warm, and nothing he can imagine ever coming from this madman.

"Shh," follows, as the other hand moves off his thigh and begins to adjust the leather collar around Arkin's neck.

"What the hell is this for?" Arkin grunts out as the collar is fastened around his throat. It's heavy on his neck and the weight is suffocating. He can't help but hitch his breathing when it's on.

Once again, the Collector slides a finger between the collar and Arkin's throat and finds it's not too suffocating. With that out of the way, the man then backs off and wanders afar.

"Huh? Hey! What- what's going on?" Arkin growls out. He pulls his head forward, but something firmly tugs at the nape of his neck, then the front of the collar digs deep into his throat. Arkin gags, coughing up what he assumes is just saliva. His head is settled back so it won't choke him anymore.

If he listens hard enough, he can hear things shuffling. Some cloth is being waved about and large objects are being moved around. Hard to discern what any of it could be.

Then he follows the sound of footsteps downstairs beginning to do something else, he can't quite tell what.

The footsteps eventually come back up the stairs and towards him.

Arkin is about to ask when a sizable weight pushes against his chest and he has to strain himself to stay upright.

Luckily, he can feel hands wrap around him and begin fiddling with the bindings. His arms fall free by his sides and the weight pulls back.

Only for them to return a moment later, placing a pair of boxers onto his lap. Arkin quickly slides them on, wincing when he leans forward and the collar pulls at his throat. The boxers aren't too snug and fit well, which isn't a surprise since the man constantly provided him with new clothes when he was kept in the hotel.

He attempts to then pick at the duct tape obscuring his eyes, but is held back by a hand around his wrist.

"Can't you take this off?" Arkin asks, trying to mask the hint of plea in his voice.

He's answered by the sudden clanking of chains, then being picked up, arms wrapping under his legs and hoisting him up.

The Collector then heads back into Arkin's designated bedroom, setting him back down on his bed. The sheets underneath him are warm and soft - must be newly washed.

He can hear chains being shaken around and manipulated before one clicks and suddenly the collar around his neck is pushing straight into his windpipe. He gags and grabs at the collar, pulling for some reprieve. Arms swiftly coil around his hips from behind and pull his body more onto the bed. Air gratefully flows back into his lungs.

Arkin reaches up at the collar and grips it on both sides, attempting to tear at it. His fingers wander after finding the material is unbreakable.

Along the back of the leather collar is a metal ring which is attached to a chain link. He hasn't a clue where that leads to. He tugs experimentally at it and finds the chain is attached to something pretty sturdy.

Footsteps come back after a long disappearance out the room, and Arkin scolds himself for trying to find a weakness in the collar rather than attempting to remove his blindfold.

A cold, metal tray is placed by his leg, grazing his bare thigh. It startles Arkin, making him shuffle away from it.

"What is that?" He asks, moving a hand to grab at the tray. It's so cold that he draws his fingers back instinctively upon touching it. He tries again, surprised the Collector allows him.

There's a large wooden box, as well as a bowl of presumably food, with another assuming cup full of water. His hand finds the opposite end of the tray and it's a relief to find nothing too sharp or mechanical on the tray. The only worry being the wooden box.

The Collector guides his hand away from the tray, setting it to his side. His captor then plants his palm on his cheek.

Arkin shudders at the touch, feeling digits tread lightly over his skin. Said fingers then move up and pick at the staples embedded into his face.

The first staple is sharply pulled out with a quick yank, and there's not much time to really feel anything before the other is yanked out as well.

Arkin winces, but sighs in relief once he can feel the corners of the duct tape being pulled off. The relief waterlogs the pain.

It takes a few moments, but the man begins to blink and his vision returns. He finds the Collector is hovering over him, hands planted on the mattress at both his sides.

He watches his captor move up both his hands to hold the sides of his face, palms placed on his cheeks. Two thumbs pull downwards at his lower eyelids and under eye.

"What?" Arkin stammers out, blinking in confusion.

Whatever inspection that had included staring into his eyes finishes, and the hands move down to his lips. A thumb presses into dry skin and slides slowly against it.

Arkin pulls his head back, but has his chin caught before he's moved far.

Both hands then leave his face and the Collector moves away from hovering directly above him.

Arkin watches his captor pick up the cup of water. It's pressed to his lips, a hand meeting his cheek to steady the cup. Arkin opens his mouth, gulping down the water.

It tastes great, for water anyway, and is refreshing after all those days with just the intravenous fluid as nourishment.

The cup is emptied, then placed back on the tray.

Now the bowl, full of those fluffy, mashed potatoes he had just the other day, has been picked up off the metal tray. Arkin eyes the Collector who moves up onto the bed beside him.

The Collector taps against his own thigh and Arkin spares a glance down at his captor's black pants.

"Really?" He mutters out, looking back up at the man. "I can eat it myself. I've got my own two hands."

The Collector jabs at his thigh again and it seems stricter now, with more ferocity than before.

It's a warning: Arkin cannot disobey this time or he'll go without those potatoes. And he knows he has to remain strong and healthy for when he escapes - which he will.

With a loud sigh of reluctance, Arkin leans forward. He turns his head to the side and lets his cheek meet dark cloth.

The Collector hums in delight and purposely scrapes the spoon against the bottom of the bowl to signal he's scooping out some potatoes now. The full spoon is then moved down, pressing into Arkin's lips. The thief opens his mouth and pushes the mashed potatoes off the spoon with his upper lip.

He swallows down the spoonful, grateful for the taste of food again.

The bowl is finished eventually though, and he's sad to have not savored it.

A hand is placed at the back of his head, combing through his hair. Upon trying to move his head back up, the grip in his hair fastens and yanks him back down. Arkin yelps in turn, grabbing at the hand on the back of his head.

"Let me go!" Arkin grunts out, trying to dislodge the grip from his hair.

"Shh." The Collector hushes, moving his other hand to caress Arkin's jaw loosely.

Arkin growls out and jolts his head up, hoping to dislodge the grasp. He moves his hands up to pry at the fingers. The Collector's grip holds firm though and he finds he cannot remove his hand without his hair being pulled roughly in the process.

Then suddenly the hold is completely released and Arkin whips up to sit up. He's panting from the struggle.

His eyes watch the Collector as the man stands and walks a good distance away. His captor then turns and glares from a distance, debating on what to do with Arkin most likely.

Then the Collector nears again, slowly, just barely at the point where he knows he can't be reached by the thief.

The two stare at each other, sending the other a mantra of curses and death threats - or atleast Arkin is. The Collector stares back, but there's no lethal intention in his glossy eyes. Maybe disappointment, but no real anger or pain.

After a while, that ends and the Collector turns away again. He scoops up the tray and the dish ware, then takes his leave out the door.

Arkin slacks his tense shoulders, then begins fiddling with the collar around his neck. There's a large, bulky, metal padlock attached to the ring and chain of his collar. He has no way of picking it open, with anything he can currently reach anyway. Upon inspection, the end of the chain is attached to a pulley system installed in the wall above the headboard. Another padlock connects the chains in the pulley, keeping him from getting anymore give without picking that too.

The man sighs out, giving up on the collar. He instead takes to look around the room and his bed for something he could pick locks with.

Nothing could possibly fit in the locks though, and what can isn't able to unlock the locking mechanism. He grunts out in frustration and resigns the idea for now.

Arkin then crawls over to the side of the bed closest to the window and attempts to stand as close as he can without the collar cutting off his air. He attempts to stretch out his legs and kick out the window, but his feet don't quite reach.

The man tries again, settling his hands on the mattress and pushing his entire body off the bed, except his neck and head. His toes graze the curtains, but he can't kick in the glass like he was aiming for.

He pushes out with his hands more, moving his feet closer to the window. However, he finds his arms can't handle the new weight and he collapses. The weight of his body drops to the floor and it makes his head follow to the ground. Except the collar pulls back and his neck slams against the leather.

Arkin gags and wheezes, pulling up at the collar's constraint. He only gets a moment of reprieve before it's tugging into him again.

The thief quickly scrambles back onto the bed, and sighs out through his deep inhaling. He takes a moment to control his breathing before moving onto the next idea.

Then, without a second thought, the man begins yelling out.

"Help! Help! I've been kidnapped and I'm being held hostage here!!" Arkin shouts, holding his hands over his mouth. It would be much better if he had managed to break the window, but this'll have to do.

Someone has to hear his screams. It's daytime, given the sunlight pouring into the room through the curtains. Kids are usually out playing games; people are usually walking their dogs; someone has to be mowing a lawn or tending to their garden. Someone will hear him.

"Help me! Help me!" Arkin tries again, pulling against the collar to get closer to the window. It chokes him until he finds the spot that's as far as he can go.

The door opens behind him, but he's still yelling out for help. A firm glove clasps around his mouth and another around his waist pulls him more onto the bed. Arkin flails his limbs around, trying to fight off the man directly behind him.

He pries the hand off his mouth and let's out one final call out for his freedom.

"Please!"

A sharp prick draws his eyes to his neck and he can already his body fall limp before he sees the syringe inserted. His eyelids flutter and his vision goes dark.

~~

Arkin blinks and is half convinced he's still asleep. It's dark and he feels hazy.

He tries to move his arms, but finds they're tied behind his back again.

He tries to mutter out 'fuck' but his lips are sealed with duct tape.

He tries to kick out but his ankles are binded together.

Arkin groans out, his body leaning against the wall he knows is beside him.

Back in the closet.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much NETWT10Z, my new beta for this story! Kudos to them for fixing any of my mistakes.

A couple days pass from his latest escape attempt. It was only an attempt though, as it didn't seem to have worked at all. Arkin can't help but feel somebody had heard him, heard him calling out for help and pleading, but thus far there is nothing to prove that.

The closet isn't comfortable in the least. He knew if he were to escape, he'd have to be moved to a less secure location, like the bed. But that requires him to play nice and Arkin really couldn't see himself doing that.

The Collector is out right now - has been for the past few hours. Arkin's still convinced he has other people outside of this place that he's tending to when he leaves. He'll have to find out where they are too so he can rescue them. But first, he has to get out of this closet.

Banging on the door with his feet does nothing but rattle the wood. Which is just all it is, wood, not metal or steel, and that should be easy to break through. But what then? Have a hole in the door? Arkin knows he won't fit unless he manages to tear the boards into pieces...and with what?

He really doesn't want to get caught halfway into the act.

So, per usual, Arkin sits and waits. Not much he can think to do but to conserve his energy. Kicking into the door will have to happen just as the Collector leaves for the day and no later.

The door downstairs is opened and closed, and Arkin can't help but think the door's creaking slightly too loud. Or maybe the walls are just too thin. From there, he can deduce he's in a house.

Whose house is he in though? He could be bait for a family that's out of town right now. Or the Collector's already finished the job and relocated them, Arkin's just too much of a hassle to relocate. But that doesn't really make sense. He could've been moved when he was drugged multiple times. Besides, he's still not heard anyone else in the house besides himself and his captor.

Someone rung the doorbell a while ago, and when the Collector went and talked with them, they didn't immediately call the police. No, the house has to belong to the Collector.

Arkin sighs out. The thought doesn't help aid him in trying to escape.

The closet door opens and the Collector stands, towering above him. He is quickly seated and effortlessly removes the tape. Water is given, sucked down in a few gulps. Then his ankles are untied and Arkin moves, as instructed, to lay on the Collector's thigh. A hand presses at the back of his head, rubbing and lightly scratching at his scalp. He eats the mashed potatoes in silence. And even as he is being readjusted back to the far wall, he makes no retort.

The new tape is applied and ankles are tied up again. The Collector shuts the closet door and that was that.

His captor can be heard moving away. Sometimes he'd walk around and then Arkin could hear water running. Things would open then close. Arkin almost wants to squint to visualize it all in the darkness.

Then the man would take his final steps and the whole house would go completely silent afterward. Hours would pass soundlessly. If Arkin didn't sleep, he could faintly hear machines whirring and buzzing downstairs but never anything else.

Tonight is an all-nighter, Arkin had decided. It is to scope out, to identify the things around him, and hopefully plan an escape.

He's been thinking for only a few minutes when something creaks and then footsteps approach. They draw closer and closer.

That isn't usual at all.

Something crashes against the door. Arkin lets out a startled yelp. Then it goes deathly quiet - or almost anyway. The thief closes his eyes and leans forward if only to hear much more clearly.

There is breathing, ragged, sporadic breaths, just beyond the wooden door. So close, right behind it.

The door opens, but it is too dark to really see anything. The large, imposing silhouette of the Collector is unmistakable though. His captor leans down and fiddles with the ties on his ankles.

Once his ankles fall free, Arkin tucks his knees into himself. A low growl comes from the Collector as he steps in closer.

Arkin flinches when a hand reaches toward him and he presses himself as far back as he can against the closet walls. The hand turns downwards in direction and clasps around one of his ankles. Then he is being pulled out of the closet by his leg.

Arkin turns himself onto his side and kicks out at the Collector's arm, hoping to dislodge the grip. Another hand swoops down suddenly and grasps his other ankle. He is flipped onto his back again.

Arkin kicks around and tries to grab the flat flooring underneath him as he is defencelessly dragged from the closet and towards the bed. His captor remains undeterred by his attempts.

Then hands guide his feet to the ground and move up to grip at his waist. Arkin takes the chance to pull back his leg and kick into the Collector's gut with as much force as he can possibly muster.

The Collector groans out upon contact, clutching his stomach. His reflective eyes shine through the darkness, locking onto Arkin's glare. His captor is much more cautious now in his movements, careful not to stand in the range of his feet.

The Collector stares down at Arkin with a cold gaze, a flicker of irritation flashing past. He growls out, signaling a warning. The man then stomps his foot down, purposely connecting with Arkin's shin.

Arkin chokes on a cry, arching his spine, spewing curses from beneath the duct tape. Pain spikes and burns from his lower leg, it feels like it's been completely crushed under the solid weight. The heel of a foot digs into the bruising skin, prodding the injury. 

"Stop! Fucking stop!" Arkin screams behind the duct tape, squeezing his eyes shut when the heel pries a little deeper. Another growl, emanating a still rather displeased attitude.

The thief pulls his other knee up, then delivers a kick to the Collector's leg currently pressing into his bruise. It did not make the Collector back off like he'd expected. In fact, it only made him more livid.

His foot comes down again, and searing agony shoots up Arkin's body. He cries out again as white spots swim into his vision. The thief mutters out something in refute, something he doesn't even register himself before the white takes over and he passes out.

~~

"-not a break. You're lucky it's not, otherwise he'd have to be hospitalized." Arkin hears as he tries to open his eyes.

"Anything I have to be careful about?" That voice sounds awfully familiar.

"Besides harboring a known criminal in your house?" A heavy sigh from whoever was talking before. "Like, if they start to complain of any chest pain, shortness of breath, coughing up blood, and any discoloration of the foot or you see they're getting inexplicably exhausted - then you have to call 9-1-1," Arkin mumbles out in half agreement, too distorted to recognize what was going on. He flutters his eyes open a smidge, just to get a look around at what is happening.

He is back on the bed, and there is a man seated at the foot of the mattress. The man is completely unfamiliar in any part of his mind, but he has to be the one speaking earlier.

Arkin meets the unknown man's eyes, and before he could try to say something, the man jumps away from the bed and takes some steps back.

"He's sedated right now. Didn't want him to fight you off." A voice Arkin recognizes is seated to his side of the bed. He moves his eyes over to the Collector perched on the edge of the mattress.

The man isn't wearing his mask. Arkin blinks. He has to take a double take when realizes he's seeing the Collector's face again.

"If you're sure. I trust you on this one, for now. Just, please keep a hold of him? I don't want a criminal like that out in the neighborhood." The guy speaks from the end of the bed, stepping just a little closer once he builds up the courage to do so.

Arkin groans out, rolling his eyes back to the man in front of him.

"Shh. It's okay." The Collector speaks, turning and leaning over Arkin. Now that the house doctor isn't looking, the man smiles.

Arkin wants to punch him right in the face, wipe that smirk off as soon as he can. The problem is he can't feel any of his body, only simple things like twitching his fingers or moving his eyes work.

A hand meets his cheek, stroking him gently. "It's only so you don't cause trouble. The numbness is normal; it'll wear off eventually," His captor assures him, scanning over his face for a response.

Arkin clicks his tongue and hums, finding it impossible to vocalize his answer of 'fuck you'. The man hovering above him seems to get the message.

The Collector turns back to the man by the foot of the bed, moving his palm from Arkin. "Thank you for coming out here. Glad to hear he will be fine."

The man nods. Arkin grunts out in refute, trying to get the guy's attention - there has to be a way of communicating if he can't talk. The man ignores him, however, seemingly dismissing him without a second thought.

"Of course. But, now that I think about it...is he holding you hostage? Threatening violence if you don't comply and let him hide here? I just want you to know, those would be very empty threats if he's jailed in the state penitentiary." The doctor remarks.

The Collector laughs, and Arkin can feel the bed shake with his guffawing. But he can place the falsehood of it - it was admittedly a very well hidden fake laugh. "No, no. I'd have called the police immediately if that were the case. He was just seeking some place to stay when I found him. I let him stay because I know how traumatized he is and how much he needs rest."

The man before them breathes out in some form of relief. "Okay, okay. My apologies. I won't call him in then." The doctor looks down at Arkin's leg, then his face lights up. "Could you pass me a pillow?"

The Collector pulls a plush pillow from under Arkin, one that doesn't really shift him around too much from sitting up. He hands it to the stranger, who fluffs it up and grabs the underside of Arkin's leg. The man lifts his leg and slides the pillow underneath, placing his limb back down afterward. "I suggest he stays like this when he's in bed. For the first few days only, though. After that, switch him back to laying flat on his back."

The doctor backs up a pace again, averting looking into the thief's eyes. Arkin grunts out again, rolling his head to the side to point to the Collector still beside him.

The man doesn't get the implications and backs up what has to be another step instead. Why is he being treated as the danger in this situation?

"He looks tired. I think we'll leave you now to rest." The Collector claims, standing up. He gives Arkin a slow rub down the side of his throat before pulling away. The house doctor and the Collector both step out of the room, closing the door and shutting off the lights as they exit.

Arkin groans out loudly, trying to get the doctor's attention back to him. He needs to warn the guy at least if the Collector decides to take him too.

Despite trying to grunt and groan loud enough to garner some attention, neither the house doctor nor the Collector pay him much heed.

The door downstairs finally opens and closes and Arkin curses himself internally. His chance to escape has just slipped through his fingers yet again.

Berating himself, Arkin doesn't realize the sudden entrance of the Collector. He does, however, notice when the bed dips to his side and he turns to look.

"It's not a break." Is all he hears in the form of a whisper before a set of lips meets his own. His slack muscles can only let him shift his pried open mouth, closing his lips so they are only slightly parted. Even when he begins sucking in Arkin's air and disabling him from breathing properly, he still can't muster any energy to fight off his captor.

Lips pull off of his and he looks into the eyes of his captor for a moment. Arkin lets out a grunt when the Collector nears again, only to have a nose press into the base of his neck. A hand covers the other side of his neck, putting some pressure into loose muscles.

Arkin breathes out another grunt, shuddering with the sudden brush of warmth on his shoulder.

"Shh," is breathed down his shoulder blade as the hand at his neck retreats in search of something. A small pouch on his utility belt produces a syringe. The cap is discarded and the needle already finding his throat.

Arkin groans this time, rolling his head to the side, knocking the side of his head into the Collector's. It doesn't deter his decision as the syringe is emptied quickly into his system then the needle capped and disposed of in that pouch of his.

Arkin breathes out, feeling his eyelids droop with every more labored breath. He tries to grunt out in refusal, wishing to fend off the intangible heaviness.

"Shh," The Collector adds in, running a hand down Arkin's side.

~~

He's been moved right back into the closet the next morning, or whenever he wakes up anyway. A pillow is tucked under his bandaged leg.

The routine is the same after a while. Sleep, eat, use the bathroom, sit and scrutinize possible routes of escape. Rinse and repeat.

Arkin has only managed to injure his captor once since and it is when he was being transported to the bathroom. He slammed his fists into his captor's rib cage and was promptly dropped onto the ground.

Arkin managed to limp out of the room, only to see stairs that lead down. He caught a glimpse of the rest of the house he was being kept in before he was tackled and a fist came swinging at the side of his head. It had effectively knocked him out and landed him back in the closet.

That had been somewhat recent. Really only could've been a couple of days ago.

He blinks when the door before him opens. The duct tape on his lips are peeled away and he drinks the water and eats the food offered in compliance. The show of cooperation earns him a tussle of his hair, fingernails scraping against his scalp lightly. Gloves had been taken off so the brunt edge of the nail could dig into skin.

Arkin readjusts his posture. He has to change to lying on his side nowadays because putting too much weight on his shin delivers sharp, flashing pain up his leg. Now he just eats and doesn't put up much of a fight. He learns to just acquiesce and for that he would get food and water. That which he would continue to eat and gather his energy. Earlier he'd noted how his ribs are beginning to fill in again after so long without consistent food. With strength nearly restored and leg just about all healed up, the perfect time to escape will arise and he has to be ready for it.

Arkin is assisted to lay back against the far wall. His legs, untied earlier so he could be moved to lay on his side, are not tied back up again nor is the duct tape reapplied across his lips.

The man looks down at his feet, then up where his captor had just been. He is gone, and it is weird to see Arkin is left unattended to with the door wide open.

The moment would have been golden to escape, had any thoughts of standing and limping were entertained. The Collector returns before Arkin could make up his mind though. He carries a large, yellow envelope and a notepad with him.

The envelope and notepad are thrown down before Arkin and the man stares down at them in wonder. He pulls at his wrists to try and move them around from behind himself and open the envelope but is only reminded they are bound up tightly.

Arkin watches as the Collector sits cross-legged before him. Their eyes meet for an exchange.

"What is this?" Arkin asks, nudging the package with his good foot.

The Collector draws a pen from his pocket. He then pulls the cap off and sticks it on the opposite end of the pen. The notepad is then plucked off the ground and relocated to the Collector's side. The pen is subsequently placed on the writing pad.

The envelope is picked up and peeled open. His captor then pulls out several pieces of paper. The Collector scans over them before he picks one out and flips the others onto their fronts, discarding them onto the ground. The chosen paper is flipped and placed in front of Arkin.

Arkin winces, recoiling from the picture. He closes his eyes and turns away, muttering out a low 'fuck'.

"Who?" The Collector asks, catching the thief off guard. The sound of his voice alone is making Arkin nauseous.

"What-? What the fuck?" Arkin mutters out, slowly opening his eyes to glance at the photograph again. It is really there. "Where the fuck did you get this?"

Arkin then pales, recalling that they were to be sold online. What he regrets doing for a quick buck.

"Who?" The Collector inquires, tapping the photo.

The movement makes him look back down at the photograph of himself. Luckily it was only his nude upper half in the frame, but just that is enough to get the idea. His hands had been tied above his head, which is visual and helps create the mental image. He really doesn't want to talk about selling his body in front of his captor or disclose it to anyone for that matter. He looks back up at the other man.

"Who took the picture?" Arkin repeats, trying to confirm the question.

The Collector nods minutely in response.

"Fuck, I don't know. Why does this matter?" Arkin tries to ask, only for the photo to be tapped again. He sighs out. "Okay, but I only know his first name."

The Collector picks up the notepad and readies the pen. He looks up at Arkin.

"His name is Stan." The thief breathes out in relief. He almost thought he wouldn't be able to say the guy's name.

Then the dreaded question comes. "What did he do?" It's just above a whisper, but Arkin couldn't have missed it. He is suddenly aware of wide, searching, calculating eyes on his person.

The man grimaces, turning his head away. "Why do you fucking care?"

A hand catches his jaw and turns him to face the Collector's searching eyes. Eyes that scan carefully over his face and take in the sight of him. The body of his captor crawls closer and that mask draws so near that he could feel his warm breaths across his face.

Abruptly, the man pulls back and scribbles something down on the notepad of his. The picture is then picked up and placed on top of the empty envelope.

The next paper is picked up and placed between them. In this one he isn't completely nude. It is his shoulders and face, which he notices the latter is bruised and bleeding. His eyes are also shut and he looks to be slouching over. It had been a particularly rough dealing with Roy, where the man became so enraged he'd knocked him out cold. This photo is probably supposed to be blackmail or encouragement of sorts.

The Collector taps the photo, this time wordlessly.

"That one was Roy." Arkin states. Not a moment later, he continues when another tap urges him on. "You can see what he did."

The Collector takes his notes and picks up another paper. This interrogation, or whatever this is, really makes Arkin look at his life choices in retrospection. There is a lot he regrets doing, and things he really never should have even thought to go through with. But one thing for sure he could never regret is having a beautiful wife like Lisa, and the whole world as his daughter Cindy.

Pictures flick by. Arkin says what he knew and what he doesn't. Any attempt at inquiring what the Collector wants with this information is shot down.

The last picture is upon him now, and it almost makes Arkin throw up the rice he'd eaten earlier, which he was now also being fed, when he saw it.

It is a photo of him, but Cindy is holding onto his side and looking directly away from the camera. They appear to be in a park.

"Where the fuck did you get this?" Arkin growls out, whipping his head up to the Collector. A finger taps at the photograph but it's deliberately ignored. "Who gave this to you?"

The Collector urges, his finger tapping against the paper again. "I'm not going to tell you unless you tell me why you need this information."

His captor turns the paper towards himself, eyeing it meticulously. His finger moves over to Cindy, hovering over her.

Arkin watches, seething silently. He forces himself to grit his teeth together tight. He refuses to respond to any questions regarding his wife or daughter.

"A relative," The Collector claims Cindy to be. Arkin neither agrees nor denies it. "And the one who took the picture. Fami-." He pauses, squinting slightly, eyeing the picture but appearing to be in a trance. "A relative too?" The man breaks out of his daze, giving Arkin a quizzical look.

Arkin looks away, loosening the hold on his teeth to let out a low hiss. "My wife."

No notes are added as the Collector scoops up all the pictures into a neat stack. The papers are then placed back into the envelope and sealed closed. The pen is closed and picked up with the writing pad and the envelope.

The Collector then leaves momentarily. He returns soon after, holding a syringe in his hands.

Arkin barks out a yelp, kicking out with his one good leg to try and gain some distance between himself and the Collector. It fails miserably when his captor crouches down and places his hand gingerly at the base of his neck.

"Please don't," Arkin tries to reason.

"Shh," the Collector hushes, injecting the serum in the other side of Arkin's neck. Arkin grunts out, trying to scoot backward and away. He tries to shake his head and delay the drug as long as he could. It never works.

His eyelids flutter shut and everything goes dark.

~~

Waking on his side, Arkin feels very heavy. He can see his arms laid out before him and his legs extending out. He breathes out, closing his eyes for a second to try and ward off the nausea crawling up his throat. He opens his eyes again, looking at the bedding and blankets that he lays on.

Back on the bed.

But something is wrong. There is something heavy pressed flush up against his back, and what he can only imagine as a large clasp around his stomach. He also can't place the feeling of something wet on his chest, which is warm and sticky.

Arkin mumbles out, pushing up with his palm to try and shift himself around. Lying on his side is beginning to make him feel strained and his arm under him growing a static, fuzzy feel.

The grip around his stomach had been slack before, idly resting. He had assumed it enough for him to be able to slip it down and sit up. But when he attempts to sit up, it pulls him down quickly. Arkin yelps, grabbing at the crushing weight as it attempts to suffocate him.

His palm meets fabric and finds his hand doesn't entirely fit around the cuff like he'd anticipated. No, it is larger, thicker, and feels much softer than leather could ever hope to. Arkin glances down, moving to pry off the cuff with both hands now. He freezes, glancing down at the large handprints and drags of red, glaring blood on his person.

"Shh," comes the silencing cue just beside his ear.

Arkin tenses up and thankfully the arm, not cuff, loosens up on him. He doesn't even think to move his hands off the Collector's arm, just remains solidly still.

He is covered in handprints of blood. Definitely not his own and probably not from the body behind him. Which is notably slotted right up against him, making it impossible to move without alerting his captor.

He blinks back into consciousness, letting out a panicked breath. Slowly he moves his hands away from the Collector's arm and doesn't fail to notice how the arm around him tightens a little.

"Wh-whose blood is this?" Arkin whispers. He hasn't originally planned on saying that out loud, but his mouth has already moved before he even thought about it.

He feels an arm slide between his side and the mattress, only to curl over his waist and further pull him closer to his captor. A leg from behind snakes around his own, and he imagines something like a boa constrictor tightening its body around him.

A cold nose, not obscured by a leather mask, presses into the base of his neck, letting out a warm brush of air. Arkin shudders.

"Stop. Ge-get off." He tries to pry an arm off or push at the body behind himself.

"Shh, shh," his captor breathes out, warming his shoulder blade. "Don't make me sedate you again."

Arkin moves his arms back down onto the mattress, drawing in a shaky breath. He doesn't want to be paralyzed or knocked out again; that is not an option. There could be a chance to escape, however, with his captor tired and his guard left wide open. He needs to plan out his escape.

A moment of silence passes, save for the quiet breathing of the Collector behind him. Arkin can't hear his own hiccuping, gasping breaths but he's sure he's not even breathing anymore. He's already dead, isn't he?

"Shh," a warm, slick, blood covered hand slides down his body and grazes his thigh.

"Whose blood is this?" Arkin asks slowly, looking down at himself, watching that hand glide against his skin.

The hand pulls back for a moment. The Collector draws something from his pocket and pulls away slightly to fetch out the object. Arkin, still attached by the arm under him, takes the time to try and calm himself down. He's not going to be able to fight off the Collector unless he manages to calm his mind.

The small, yellow notepad is thrown down onto the blankets, right before Arkin's eyes. The second arm wounds around him again and his captor moves back up against him but he doesn't take notice.

He can see every name written down that the Collector had interrogated out of him. Each name has a streak of blood crossing them out. Arkin hitches his breath, eyes scrolling all the way down, searching for her name.

The last name reads 'Wife', obscured by a long streak of red over it.


	5. Chapter 5

It takes a moment for Arkin to just breathe; his breath has hitched the moment he saw the word 'Wife'.

Lisa. Lisa is dead. And Cindy?

"You-." It dies in his throat as if it were squeezed shut with a gloved hand.

This is surreal. It- it can't be happening.

He blinks back into his feet, feeling the numbed stillness of his body. There is a hand stroking him gently on the thigh, and the Collector is crooning at him: trying to soothe him, to calm him down; trying to lull him back to sleep.

Lisa is dead.

A sudden crash of emotions spurs through him and he can't tell whether it's the bitter resentment or the inexplicable guilt that drives him into motion, but he knew he has to get the hell out of here, no matter how big a price he has to pay to escape.

He kicks his legs back into his captor's, feeling the grip around his waist loosen. Arkin then flips himself onto his back to swing his fist into the Collector's ribs.

The impact is jarring, he notices as the Collector's facial features scrunch up in disdain. Taking advantage of the break, Arkin practically leaps off the bed, flinching when his hurt leg hits the ground. His captor recovers almost instantly, swiftly pushing off the bed and landing onto his feet.

Arkin stands at the opposite side of the bed, watching his captor with a careful, wary gaze. They stare each other down, checking for signs of weakness in the other's eyes.

Then the larger man smirks and turns to the door of the bedroom. He strides over, keeping his eyes on Arkin's. The Collector then takes out a key from his pocket and inserts it into the keyhole, twisting the key in the knob. It gives a resounding click, assuring both Arkin and the Collector the door is now locked.

Arkin winces, realizing the door handle had been installed in reverse, enabling someone outside the room to lock an occupant in— installed specifically for someone that belongs to the collection, his mind supplies.

The Collector turns back then, the smirk no longer present on his face and key deposited back into his pant pocket. He commands silently, pointing with a finger to the mattress.

Arkin shakes his head, a snarl catching in his throat. "Fuck you. What have you done to my wife?"

The Collector steps closer to Arkin, still pointing at the bed. When the thief gives no sign of obeying does he step closer, clearly not intending to answer his question.

Arkin draws in a sharp intake of breath, letting his anger swell, before he steps forward briskly and strikes out his arm, aiming for the head. The Collector growls, quick to deflect the blow with his own arm thrown up. His free hand then comes up and clamps down fiercely on Arkin's forearm. His captor then yanks him forward abruptly, making the thief stumble with a grunt. The next movement of releasing Arkin's arm and then gut-punching him goes unseen but definitely felt as the air escapes his lungs.

The thief falls back to the ground, harshly onto his knees, clutching his stomach and gasping for oxygen. His body shakes and he coughs, dry heaving up nothing but air for a few prolonged moments before he realizes an arm has curled around his back and a hand settled under his chin.

Arkin glances over at the Collector, who sits on his knees beside him. The thief takes a moment to settle onto the backs of his heels and regain his composure before pushing the man back and holding him down. His hands placed on his captor's biceps to pin him to the wooden flooring.

Success doesn't hold long for Arkin as another fist comes swinging into his jaw (later he would chastise himself for not keeping watch on the Collector's hands). The captive wavers at the blow, collapsing to the ground on his side, holding his jaw in distress.

A hand flips him onto his stomach and a knee presses into his back. Arkin grunts, scrambling for purchase with his hands and feet under himself, only being pushed back down with the force of the Collector's leaning weight. He gasps out in agony, squirming under the hold.

A hand then grabs at his hair and yanks. Arkin yelps, his own hand meeting the pulling one of his captor. His head is pulled back and the thief cries at the pain building up in his neck from the cruel strain.

"She is not here anymore." The Collector lets out a low growl as he speaks, leaning over his captive. He purposely breathes warmly into Arkin's ear, his lips grazing lightly against the skin of his lobe. Arkin squirms as expected, but his hand, that had been aimed at the larger man, is intercepted by his palm encircling his wrist.

"You fucking killed her! You sick fuck-!" Another fierce yank at his hair elicits a pained cry. It doesn't deter his indignation. "Why the hell did you fucking do it? She wasn't even part of your sick games. Tell me why you killed her...!"

The Collector releases Arkin's wrist, only to procure a full syringe from a small pouch on his belt and proceed to inject its content into the base of Arkin's neck. He then places the syringe back into the pouch and seals it up.

The Collector takes a moment to let the sedative partially grasp Arkin, the man already beginning to fall slack and limp under his weight.

"Shh," he smiles triumphantly, placing the man's head back down against the cool flooring, a hand resting under his cheek.

Arkin's eyes roll into the back of his head followed by a final loud groan.

~~

Blinking awake with a vague recollection of what happened is nauseating on its own. Having his arms strained above his head and a tight, cold binding around his stomach isn't helping.

Arkin grunts out when he tries to pull his arms down and the duct tape snags and tears at the skin of his forearms. He shifts, trying to lean away from the compressing, cool weight around his torso. It didn't do much as the duct tape had been wrapped around his stomach.

"C'mon, fuck." He hisses out, arching his back in discomfort. A small chirp resounds in his ears and Arkin sharply turns his head to peer over at a small, white device lying on the bed beside him. It's faintly familiar in his mind, but he can't quite place it.

He contemplates shouting out for someone's attention again, even when last time his administrations had yielded no results. He pauses though in his efforts when another glance at the plastic device brings forth a sudden revelation: it's a baby monitor. A resurgence of thoughts washes over him.

_Lisa is dead. And Cindy..._

Cindy. Is she okay? Had she hid from the damn psycho? Arkin hopes, pulling fruitlessly at the bindings again, that Cindy had escaped him. His little girl is smart and has wit, she had to have slipped from under his captor's radar. But fuck, he hadn't been able to save Lisa.

He was stupid for even bringing her up to his captor. Why had he let slip that she was his wife? Had he honestly expected something other than this to happen? He could've prevented her death by saying it had been a random stranger, someone who was randomly passing by, who aided in taking a picture of him and a relative.

There is a strong longing to just cry and it wrings at his brain and tear ducts in hope of producing some tears. It won't help him here. Arkin subdues the feeling mentally just as the bedroom door clicks and swings open.

The Collector stands there, fingers curled around a mug's handle, and the other holding a bowl in his palm. It seems the removal of his mask may have become a permanent fixture. For the better or worse, Arkin doesn't really know.

His captor places the bowl and mug down on the floor by the closet then steps up to the bed. Slowly, the compress around Arkin's waist is unsecured and removed, only for a warm palm to meet the bare skin of his stomach. It's bruised and hurt at the surface of the skin, numb from the cool compress, but nothing feels alarmingly off internally.

Fingers probe into his flesh harder and Arkin grunts. "What the fuck are you doing all of this for? Why keep me here and- and then kill my wife? Do you think you're invincible, untouchable? Do you think you'll get away with all of this?" Arkin spits, a slight growl in his tone as they locked gazes.

The Collector lets out a soft hum. His hand slips under Arkin's guard and comes to caress the man's jaw in trepidation. "You're too fucking confident, you bastard. You'll get caught. I hope you never get caught though, no, not by the authorities. I want to personally beat the shit out of you, you psycho. I'll maim you beyond recognition. Make you go through everything I suffered by your hands, but tenfold." His captor lets out a pleased hum like he is enjoying hearing him rant.

A pat to his cheek is his response before his captor stands and plucks the mug and bowl from off the floor. They are then brought back to Arkin and the Collector takes a seat on the mattress beside his head.

Setting the bowl down, that which Arkin can't peer into from his position, does the Collector use his now free hand to lift the thief's head. Once he tilts his head up, the Collector brings the mug to his lips and lets Arkin drink the water. Arkin surprises himself by gulping all of it down rather quickly, but he shouldn't have really been with his current state of dehydration.

The now-empty mug is set down on the floor by the bed, completely out of Arkin's line of vision. The bowl of food is then picked up, and before Arkin can even think about what it might be, it's placed on the ground too.

"Huh?" The confused sound escapes the thief before he could even really think to stop himself.

"Tell me." The Collector pauses, a smile on his face as he looks over Arkin. "Tell me what you'd do to me - how would you maim me 'beyond recognition'?"

Arkin blinks with a sense of obliviousness, then sneers with derision. "What the hell, you get off on that shit or something?"

His captor ignores the question, padding into the bathroom. He comes back out a moment later, holding a roll of bandage gauze. The man sits at the end of the bed.

The Collector grabs the ankle of Arkin's leg, giving an experimental tug. Arkin grunts at being pulled taut.

"Cocky fucking bastard. You want to know what I will do to you? I'll fucking tie you up and hang you by your damn feet. I'll make a large, deep cut from your dick down to your neck and let your organs spill. But no, I wouldn't let you die. Too simple, too painless. I'll shove them back in and stitch you up. I'd deprive you of food and trace your ribs with deep lacerations. I'll insert hooks under your skin and tug until I've peeled you completely - like a human orange." Arkin growls, moving to arch his back and tug at his arms again, but there's no escaping the bindings despite his efforts.

The Collector hums at being compared to an orange, having drawn the knife from his utility belt. He presses the blade to Arkin's ankle and slid down in a line, hard enough to draw red beads to the surface.

Arkin grunts in pain, attempting to draw his leg back into his body. The grip remains unrelenting.

The Collector urges on with a hum, and Arkin feels he misheard the content in the other's tone.

"I'll- I'll sew your mouth shut and stick n- nails in your-!" Arkin screams in pain behind clenched teeth as the knife plunges into his heel. "Fuck! Fucking stop!" He squirms and pulls at his bindings again, to no avail.

The knife pierces completely through his heel and Arkin lets out a loud grunt, twisting to get out of the grasp. "Stop, you fucker! Don't ask me to say shit if you didn't want to hear it!"

The Collector pushes through the skin, completely severing the Achilles tendon in the process. Arkin mouths a scream, his head reeling back and his chest heaving with exertion. _Holy fuck, that hurt like a bitch!_ But he is determined not to give the satisfaction of a scream to his captor.

The gauze roll is peeled open and properly wrapped around the gaping wound. When blood seeps through the layer of bandages, the Collector would continue to wrap it. It finally halts in bleeding and the Collector cut it at the end with the bloodied knife.

"Where would you stick nails, Arkin? How long would the nails be?" The Collector asks like he is asking for the time of day - casually. Too casually to be discussing torture methods.

"All- all over your body. Your eyes, your arms, your waist, your legs. Never deep enough to kill, but enough that if you try to move, it would cause tremors of sharp, red pain. It would hurt to even breathe." Arkin lets out a hiss.

The Collector nods and steps away from the bed, only to walk over to the other side and sit by the opposite leg. Arkin's futile maneuvers are disregarded as he catches his ankle before Arkin had time to pull away.

"Anything else?" The man asks, the tip of the knife already pressed to the skin of his other ankle.

"Are you going to stab me again?" Arkin asks pensively, his eyes watching the blade.

The knife is driven deeper into the skin, a groan emanating from Arkin as blood spills down his foot.

A sick crunch follows as the Collector leans his weight suddenly down on the knife's hilt, forcing it completely through the heel. Arkin curses into the air, his eyes squeezed shut and his lip caught between his teeth.

The knife pulls across the rest of the skin, severing the second Achilles tendon as well. More gauze is applied, wrapping around both the leg and the bottom of the foot.

That foot is then released too and the Collector conceals the blade.

Arkin grunts out when he tries to bend his foot, causing sharp pains to erupt up his leg and form a numb, prickly feeling in his toes.

"Why?" Arkin breathes out, his eyes looking at the back of his eyelids. "Why are you still doing all this? What do you have to gain?"

The Collector continues to ignore his questions, instead opting for standing up and stepping back over to where the food lies on the floor. The bowl is picked back up. The captor then sits back down by Arkin's head.

He's fed some lightly seasoned mashed potatoes for his troubles. Arkin keeps his eyes closed and only opens his mouth when prompted by the tap of a spoon to his lips. The palm of a hand lightly nudging his cheek in a pattern meant to be soothing. Arkin is too numb to notice.

It is over quick and the Collector draws from the bed. Arkin opens his eyes, watching the man's form decline.

The man came back a moment later, holding the plastic, white baby monitor. The monitoring device is seated by his forearm and then beeped to life.

The Collector then gives Arkin one final look over before turning out of the room. The light is flicked off and the door closed shut, the lock clicking as it slid into place.

Arkin blinks and breathes in, taking a moment to simply regain his composure. He needs to keep that strong front if he were to ever escape.

Tears prick at his eyes, and it would be a huge relief to just let them go. He knew crying would let out the raw pent up anger and grief, but he doesn't dare let a tear fall now. When he has Cindy in his arms again, only then can he let himself truly feel happiness; never would he let himself fall weak in front of his captor again. He'd done that enough times as of late to teach him for the rest of his life.

For now, Arkin situates himself on the bed for as much comfort as he can manage and dozes off.


End file.
